


you'll be the death of me

by rosierey



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mission Fic, boy struggling w they feelins, but only vaguely, nothing graphic, or a little more?, sorry it's a mix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-03 17:57:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11537460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosierey/pseuds/rosierey
Summary: "What's worse than a gunshot wound?""A broken heart? I've heard it's quite painful."





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first tmfu fic so pls enjoy it! it's a little angsty, a little cute idk...
> 
> anyway there's so POV change later on and this fic is a 2 parter, but if you guys like it im working on a second installment!

"A knife." 

It comes out more a slur, Napoleon's tongue tripping over the word. He frowns at the crystal glass in his outstretched hand, the honey liquid sloshing at the rim. 

"Izvinite?" 

He focuses on Illya who is watching with an almost bemused expression from across the low glass table. Even drunk the Russian sits ramrod straight, his only tells the pink in his paled cheeks and dazed eyes. Napoleon on the other hand, slouches against the sofa with his tie cast aside and sleeve rolled up. Two very different creatures; black and white. 

They started drinking... what; a hour ago? Napoleon ponders, looking at the evidence between them- a tall, slim bottle of vodka and a fat, engraved crystal decanter of bourbon- both two thirds missing. 

"Solo?" 

Napoleon's heavy eyes move back to Illya and it takes him a moment to realise his train of thought had been completely derailed. This is the most he- both of them probably- have drank in a while. Since Istanbul they had been none stop; job after job, mission after mission, the time in between taken up by debriefings, cat naps and flights. 

Finally in Italy, after six months, they're given 38 hours downtime after successfully "borrowing back" classified documents from a THRUSH operative. 

It hadn't gone completely smoothly- it never does. And Gaby had found herself in a fist fight with said TRUSH operative before Napoleon and Illya could come to the rescue. 

In typically elegant Gaby style, the littlest u.n.c.l.e agent had brushed it off- with just a plaster on her calf- and announced she'd be meeting a son of an oil merchant in the hotel bar for drinks. Illya had watched her go, his eyes a little soft. That feeling, growing all the more familiar as time passes, crept into Napoleon's gut and without thinking he cheerily suggested 'drinks?'. 

With a chilly air Illya often had around Napoleon- which had thawed minutely over the last few months of saving each others lives repeatedly- he accepted with one amendment; he selected the vodka ('you Americans no nothing of vodka'). 

Hours later they sit against opposite sofas; a Russian, American standoff fueled by booze. The room's a little too warm, even with the French windows cast wide, and the lamps illuminating the scene evoke old memories of a luxurious- taken for granted- time in Napoleon's life. 

Napoleon runs a hand through his hair, trying to organise his thoughts. "It isn't a leash. You said... I was at the end of a long leash, held by a short-" 

"Your balls." 

"-man I- what?" 

Illya waves his hand in a vague gesture of 'never mind'. 

"It isn't- it wasn't a leash." Napoleon repeats. 

"So what was it?" Illya asks, a note of curiosity in his voice. Napoleon realises his accent is thicker when he drinks. The gut feeling returns, heavy and threatening like molten metal. 

Napoleon scoots forward and picks up the bourbon, pouring two fingers into the glass. He replaces the cap with a noisy clink. 

"I would say-" He lifts his chin in a mock dramatic pause that most girls would have laughed at but Illya simply raises his eyebrows further, "- a knife. A knife hanging from a string over my head." 

"You're free to move but can't with risk knife will fall." Illya says. "Lording freedom over you." 

"I can see freedom, feel it around me but...yes." Napoleon trails off, the expression on the Russian's face making the words redundant. 

It's understanding, almost sympathy, let slip by the vodka in his system but Napoleon doesn't care. He didn't realise how much he needed it until now; simple understanding from another human being. 

In this job, in his world there is no comfort or understanding. Napoleon Solo glided through five years of CIA work, emotionless; grabbing any as a bouy, however temporary- a woman, a good wine, the occasion job on the side just to remind himself he is not a tool. But he could never hold on for long and soon his fingers would slip and he would sink into numbness. 

His circumstances were so out of the ordinary, so unique, Napoleon never thought he would meet people in the same line of work who wouldn't look at him with distain or as less-than. But The Red Peril sits before him, blond hair askew, shoes removed to reveal red and grey stripped socks, and he's looking at Napoleon. 

Like he's human. 

Illya's sees the world through cross-hairs, at any moment poised to attack. Napoleon has glimpsed past the guarded exterior very few times. Gaby occasionally gets through but he sees her lose energy at the constant fight. Not that either of them blame him. They’ve discussed it in secret over coffee on flights or in the dark of a stakeout. He's been made that way and you can't just scrub that away. But Napoleon just wants to be able to touch the wall- it's a thirst he has for art and beautiful people. The forbidden fruit is always the sweetest and, god, Napoleon can almost taste Illya's from here. 

"Napoleon?" 

Napoleon jerks, the deep voice suddenly closer. Illya leans across the table, palms against the glass and legs stuck out awkwardly to bring him a few inches from Napoleons face. 

"Where did you go?" Illya asks, tilting his head. 

The feeling in his gut twists painfully and Napoleon shifts, knee bashing the edge of the table in surprise. The last time he was this close to the Russian he was thrown through a cubicle door seconds after. 

"Away..." Napoleon replies dumbly. Illya's brow furrows but he nods and sits back down, crossing his legs. Suddenly Napoleon can breathes again and he takes a deep gulp of air. 

"I go away sometimes too." Illya murmurs. Napoleon watches him run his thumb around the rim of his shot glass rhythmically. 

"Where do you go, Peril?" 

"Somewhere red... that's all I see. Anger. I don't want to but-" he shrugs with feint nonchalance, "- just happens sometimes." 

Napoleon knows this. God, he's seen it and has one (now healed) broken finger to show for it. 

"It's not your fault." 

Illya looks skeptical. 

"Illya, you're not a monster. Well, you're tall enough and you fight- That's besides the point, you can be monstrous... but you are not a monster." 

"I do not see difference." Illya murmurs dejectedly, his dark gaze fixed over Napoleon's shoulder. 

"There is!" Napoleon barks, putting his glass down a little forcefully. "Illya.... Illya I've see you sing alone to Nina Simone, I've see your eyes light up when you win at chess against me or when Gaby's brings fresh pastries for breakfast- your favourite is the croissant. You may not show it, but your just as human as the rest of us." 

The silence that follows is a collision of their shock. Illya stares at him now, wide eyed, lips tightly shut and glass squeezed dangerously against his chest. Napoleon is frozen, sat up on his knees, suddenly worried for his safety. But then: 

"I... I do not sing Nina Simone." 

His voice is just shy of shrill and Napoleon can't help laughing, falling sideways and laughing into the carpet. 

"I do not sing Nina Simone!" Illya cries grumpily. 

"Amsterdam, a month ago!" Napoleon says with tears in his eyes, propping himself up on his elbows. "We were watching that Ambassador for eighteen hours and, and you thought I fell asleep but I didn't." 

Illya's eyes widen in horror. 

"You mustn't tell Gaby." 

"Illya!" Napoleon laughs again throwing his head back. He hasn't laughed so freely in years. 

A shadow falls and Napoleon barely conceals his gasp as Illya looms over him. A wholly different silence falls, and Illya's eye search for something in Napoleon. His already racing heart leaps as dangerous fingers settle around his throat, a barely there pressure that has him swallowing. 

"Illya-" 

"You don't call me that." Illya interjects, his voice barely there. 

"Okay." Napoleon croaks. 

"No, no I mean-" Illya closes his eyes for a moment looking frustrated. "You call me Peril. So much, sometimes I think you don't know my name." 

"I know your name, Illya Kuryakin." Napoleon says, lifting his hand slowly and wrapping it around the Russian's wrist. "I know you." 

Napoleon Solo has stolen paintings during gala's, has infiltrated military bases and the homes of prestigious men and women but his heart has never raced quite as wildly as it does as Illya leans in. 

There's a knock at the door. 

Illya springs backward like a spooked cat. His calves knock into the table and the bottle of vodka teeters over. 

Disappointment racks through Napoleon as Illya's face contorts, and smooths over- his mask returned. By the time Napoleon is on his feet he is alone. 

Ignoring the prickling behind his eyes, Napoleon strides to the door, adjusting his fringe before turning the lock. 

Gaby leans against the frame, impatience all over her face. 

"Teller." Napoleon says, thankful is voice is so clear. 

"Solo." Gaby replies, brushing past him and kicking off her heels as she walks toward the sofa. 

"I take it the boy was a bust?" Napoleon asks. 

"Man, Solo." Gaby sighs, falling onto the cushions. "And yes. God, he was... boring. Patronising. But he brought all my drinks." She sits up and inspects the fallen vodka bottle, standing it back up. 

"Mmm, well who can say no to free drinks." 

"Not you clearly." Gaby replies smoothly, lifting the bourbon decanter to her nose and sniffing the rich contents. 

"I'll have you know I purchased all the drinks this evening." 

He takes the seat opposite her and is met with a unnervingly knowing gaze. Napoleon crosses his knees and coolly returns the weighted look, picking up his abandoned glass and taking a sip. 

"I'm surprised you persuaded Illya to engage in such revelry." Gaby finally says dryly, twisting a lock of hair between her fingers but the innocent act doesn't fool Napoleon. He shrugs. 

"Our first down time in half a year, it's worth celebrating." 

Gaby snorts. "Illya's version of celebrating is a game of chess against himself." 

Napoleon can't help chuckling, but it does make him wonder why Illya would accept his invitation. His fingers stray to his throat where the ghost of a hand remains. It's not enough, he wants it back. 

"I have no more insight into the psyche of our Russian Spy than you, Miss Teller." Napoleon says smoothly. 

"No. You don't." Gaby replies, the words would seem harsh if her tone was not so sad. "Goodnight, Napoleon." She gets up and, with only a few tipsy missteps, makes it to her bedroom. 

Napoleon gazes around the room, which seems that much larger without them there. 

Thirty hours to go. 

Suddenly it's like too much. 

He drains his glass, and goes about tidying the room; replacing the drinks to the sideboard, straightening the furniture and turning off the lamps. 

In the darkness Napoleon picks up Illya's shoes and goes to his door. He pauses there, listening to the silence beyond, free hand moving to his neck. Carefully he places the shoes by the frame, and retreats to his own room. 

 

\- 

 

Gaby takes one hand from the wheel and slaps Napoleon hard. 

"Ouch! What was that for?" Napoleon gasps, rubbing the back of his hand. 

"Stop touching it." She replies, though with more concern than anger. 

Napoleon gazes at his arm, wrapped hurriedly in white linen that is quickly turning red. The car swerves and his temple collides with the doorframe. 

"Ouch! Again!" He curses. Gaby grumbles, leaning forward in her seat as she navigates the streets of night time Kazakhstan. 

"You know... we lost them ten minutes ago." Napoleon mutters, gripping his forearm. It's beginning to ache now and the warm liquid dripping from his elbow is nauseating. It had been such a nice suit too. 

"We have to get to the safe house." Gaby replies, jerking the wheel and turning them into a side street where they narrowly miss a black cat. Napoleon raises his eyebrows. 

He decides to leave her be, after all she sort of helped save his life back there. Who would've expected THRUSH agents in Kazakhstan. UNCLE hadn't and now the team is split and Napoleon can't help planning exactly what he's going to say to Waverly if anything happens to- 

"Solo! Stay awake please." Gaby calls. Her voice sounds so far away. But Napoleon sits up and forces his eyes to watch the street zip by. 

Illya must have got out. The man could probably vault a grow adult, Napoleon has no trouble believing he could scale that security wall. But beyond there he's alone. Napoleon frowns. 

"He'll be fine. I know he will." Gaby says, reading Napoleon's thoughts somehow. 

"Of course he will... he's the Red Peril." He replies softly, a deep throb shoots up his arm and he covers his gasp with a sigh. 

"We're here. Come on." 

A door slams and moments later cold air rushes in around him. 

"I said move Napoleon." His sergeant barks and he staggers hurriedly from the passenger seat, colliding with the body in his way. 

"Yessir." He mutters. 

"I prefer miss Teller over whatever bizarre fantasy you're in." Gaby tuts and, to Napoleon's immense surprise, wraps an arm under his and half carries him to a backdoor. 

The first thing Napoleon notices is the smell; dusty and stale. 

The second is the distinct lack of other people. 

"He's not here." Gaby says, her voice suddenly small. 

"He will be." Is all Napoleon can manage and it's hardly enough to convince himself. "Let's get this fixed up in the meantime, hm?" 

The bathroom is small, and the two of them have to shift around before deciding Napoleon is best off in the bathtub and Gaby on the toilet. With a tragic frown, Napoleon sheds his blazer, waistcoat and shirt also darkly stained and beyond saving. Gaby watches in disbelief as he stops to fold them. 

When the red linen is finally removed simultaneous hisses are released from the agents. 

"It... could be worse." Napoleon says attempting a charming smile. 

Gaby ignores him and pulls out a first aid kit from beneath the sink. "We need to clean it." 

Being an agent for the CIA for five years Napoleon has got a fair amount of scraps to show for it, from stab wounds, to broken bones and bruises in a rainbow of colours. But never shot. 

"That can't be possible." Gaby snorts as she liberally dabs the gash. 

"Have you?" Napoleon asks. He sits back, arm out for Gaby, and rests his head against the tiles trying to focus on anything but the sting. 

"No. But this is hardly a GSW, Solo, they winged you." 

"Well, I'm wounded... and it was via a gunshot so." Napoleon replies, sticking out his chin petulantly. Gaby glares back, lobbing the pink tissue at his chest. 

After minutes of silence- wherein Napoleon grips his thigh bruisingly and Gaby washes away the red from his skin- Gaby sits back, chewing her lip. 

"I don't know how to stitch." 

"You-you're serious." Napoleon sighs, glaring at the ceiling. "If we don't stitch up, I'm going to lose more blood and I will pass out. I don't like passing out. I'll do it mys-" 

A resounding click echoes from the backdoor and Gaby visibly tenses, meeting his eye. Napoleon raises a finger to his lip, listening hard. There's no movement and then; 

"Gaby? Solo?" 

It's so quietly hopeful, Napoleon doesn't think it's actually him for a moment but Gaby is on her feet and out of the door in a second. He sluggishly lifts himself up and follows. 

The Russian holds Gaby six inches off the ground, arms wrapped around her thin waist and his face buried in her shoulder. Napoleon uses the wall for support to traverse the steps, and on the last one Illya looks up.  
His eyes are shiny, and if Napoleon didn't know him so well he'd say they were tears. A freshly bleeding cut scars his brow. As he sets Gaby down, Napoleon sees his hands; scrapped red knuckles that would be painful in the morning. 

"Might want to put some ice on those, Peril." 

"Cowboy." Illya breaths, eyes on the arm cradled against Napoleon's chest. 

"He needs stitches." Gaby says. Illya nods, not taking his eyes off of him- under any other circumstances Napoleon would have found that quite enjoyable but the room is starting to spin. He staggers. 

"Easy there, Cowboy." 

Hot hands grab him and he's guided back up the stairs. Voices murmur around him but he doesn't quite hear them, preoccupied with the heat coming off the Russian. The tub is slippery with sweat and blood but Illya holds onto him until he's seated. 

"Do you always burn so hot?" Napoleon asks as the warmth slips away. 

"Stay still, Solo." Illya mutters as he takes Gaby's seat and lifts needle to thread. The last dregs of adrenaline suddenly surge, and Napoleon takes several gasping breathes. 

A hand returns, firmly on his shoulder and Illya gives him a hard stare. 

"The first stitch is worst." 

Napoleon looks at how calm he is, so steady and it's... reassuring. Illya waits until Napoleon nods slightly before plunging the needle into his skin. 

He doesn't pass out, so Napoleon takes that as a win but bile rises in his throat as the thin steel shifts inside his flesh. 

"I'm going to be sick." 

"No you're not." 

"I am." 

"No, Napoleon, concentrate." Illya says quietly as he works. "Find something to distract you." 

Napoleon breaths deeply, listening carefully. There's traffic somewhere in the distance, the rumble of engines and occasionally a horn. Someone calls to someone else in a foreign language, and a door slams a street away.  
A stove clicks as Gaby turns up the heat beneath a pot. She murmurs as she works, perhaps to herself or to Waverly on the radio. 

Then Illya. His breath is so careful, measured like it might interrupt his hands. There's blood in his hair and Napoleon wonders if it is his or some unfortunate souls. He's murmuring too, in Russia and he listens hard; 'berezhnyy', 'vse normal'no', 'eto ono'. Napoleon closes his eyes and pretends the words are for him. 

"Vse sdelano." 

With a burning tug of silk, Illya snaps the thread with his teeth and ties it off. Napoleon begins to draw his hand away, but Illya grips his wrist and elbow. Illya scrutinises the his hand work, thumb heavy on his pulse. He must  
notice the up-tick because Illya looks up. 

He looks so handsome even with blood on his face. 

"Peri-" 

He begins, then promptly vomits. 

Illya stands swiftly, moving to hold Napoleon's hunched shoulders. Napoleon groans, he'd hoped to save at least his trousers. 

"That... is embarrassing." He croaks. 

"Happens to most after first bullet wound, no matter." Illya says with a wave of his hand, he grasps Napoleon's side and lifts him up. "You shower, I will find clothes." 

It takes far too much effort for him to remove his trousers and stay up right beneath the luke warm water, but Napoleon is grateful to feel the grim slipping away. 

His colleagues voice's drift from the kitchen and it's probably the blood loss but Napoleon finds it comforting. His stitches tug as he rests his arm against the tiles to keep it out of the wet. Illya's stitches. Slender hands, piano players hands, used for destruction and violence, fixed him. It feels at odds, but perfect. 

It reminds him of the night in Italy, a moment his mind wanders to far more often than he would like. Two weeks since and Illya still acts as if it did not happen. Napoleon wonders if he genuinely doesn't remember, but the glances and the way Illya's hands linger tell a different story. Exhaustion and longing chase each other in his mind. He hasn't 'longed' for anything in years- except freedom. 

When he finishes showering a pile of clothes wait inside the half closed door. He gingerly dresses in the black cargoes and green cable sweater. Groaning, Napoleon looks in the mirror at his tired face and realises he has nothing to tame his hair with. 

Gaby is talking rapidly in German as Napoleon enters the kitchen. 

To his amusement Illya has taken charge of the soup, while Gaby stands by with her hands on her hips like it wasn't her decision. 

"Le- Solo, sit down before you fall down." Gaby tuts, nodding to the kitchenette. 

"You really must work on that bed side manner, miss Teller." Napoleon replies, easing himself into the seat that creaks. 

"Well I won't be sleeping with you any time soon so why bother." Gaby sits across from him and lifts the fashion magazine that looks a year old, in front of her face. Illya snorts. 

"Last I checked there are only two bedrooms." Napoleon says, smiling wickedly- or as wicked as one can manage with blood loss. 

Gaby peers over the paper, "you're far less charming with so many curls. And there is a sofa." 

Napoleon self-consciously runs a hand through his fringe. "I can't sleep on a sofa... I have a gunshot wound." 

"It is not a gunshot wound! It's a graze!" Gaby says testily. 

"Peril called it a gunshot wound, didn't you Peril." Napoleon replies, smiling at Gaby evilly. 

"Is-" Illya pauses looking over his shoulder at Napoleon, staring at his hair for a moment. "Is gunshot wound... I will take sofa." 

"Good, now that's settled I'm going to sleep while I can." Napoleon announces. 

"Pick up in eight hours." Gaby calls. 

Eight hours sleep what a blessing, Napoleon sighs. He finds the nearest bedroom and, barely sparing a second to take of his sweater, falls between the sheets. He lays on his stomach, his arm out across the bedside table  
hoping the dull pain will let him sleep. 

Alsa, he barely has his eyes closed for more than a minute before knuckles rap on the door. 

Without opening his eyes, Napoleon groans and calls out. "A wounded soldier needs bed rest!" 

"Drama queen." 

Napoleon peers over his shoulder at the imposing Russian standing at the foot of his bed, clutching a bundle in his left hand. 

"Gaby told you to call me that didn't she." Napoleon replies, but the Russian is entirely focused on Napoleon's hair. 

"Get it out." Napoleon sighs, "I know they're ridiculous but it's just my hair, Illya. I'm still the same suave thief you know and love." 

Peril looks stunned for a second then glares, holding up the bundle. 

"I bring bandages, the wound is too fresh to be left open in air." He explains gruffly. Napoleon sighs again but nods, pressing his face into the pillow and offering his arm. He probably lookslike a petulant child but he's too tired to be bothered. 

"Care to do the honor?" 

In signature silence, Illya moves around the bed and sits at Napoleon's hip. He lays the stripes of material over one knee and takes Napoleon's arm by the wrist. Napoleon's heart starts to beat faster as Illya gently twists his  
arm. 

"Admiring your handy work, Peril?" 

Illya meets his eyes. "Something like this, yes." He murmurs. Napoleon is suddenly very thankful he's lying on his stomach. 

"Were you worried about me, Peril?" Napoleon asks. His cheeky smile fades when Illya doesn't answer. Clearly the man is either too grumpy or too tired to banter. 

"I'm fine, Peril honestly." 

Napoleon lets his head hit the pillow as Illya wraps his forearm. 

He wonders how Illya learnt to stitch; most likely in his training, but Napoleon thinks that isn't interesting enough. No, Illya taught himself he decides. On the job, where the KGB don't leave nifty medical kits for their agents or medi-evac. Using a basic sewing needle and thread, Napoleon can picture in at a bathroom sink, stoically weaving his skin back together reassuring himself with those murmured words. 

"There." Illya's voice interrupts his thoughts. "You need to be more careful, Cowboy." 

"You're bedside manner could use some work too." Napoleon chuckles but his breath catches. 

Illya's hand buries itself in the curls at the base of his neck, fisted there in a not so gentle hold. Napoleon stills like a rabbit caught in the teeth of a fox. 

"I mean it, Solo." 

Slowly, Illya's hand unclenches. His fingers push deeper into Napoleon's hair and he can't help the whimper as the rough fingers glide over his scalp. Napoleon turns his head to look at Illya and he forgets to breath a second  
time. Illya is transfixed by Napoleon, a hint of betrayal on his eyes as he watches his own hand move. 

Feeling daring, Napoleon shifts. Illya's hand slips willingly until it settles, palm against Napoleon's cheek. Napoleon lifts his own hand to Illya's, slipping them together so his fingers settle between Illya's. 

"I'll be okay, Illya. We'll be okay." 

For an achingly long time, or perhaps just a few seconds they sit like that. 

Then Illya seems to break, a sobbing sort of gasp leaving his lips. He pulls his hand away and stumbles up. 

"No, I must go." Illya whispers. 

"Illya!" Napoleon says scrambling to sit up, not caring how desperate his voice sounds. Illya stops in the doorway but does not face him. "You were wrong. It wasn't the first stitch, it hurt the whole time. But it was worth the  
pain." 

In the shadow of the door Illya's face is an unreadable silhouette. Napoleon stares into the dark anyway and, even after Illya walks away, he stares. Sleep alludes him. 

 

\- 

 

Every breath of New York air is cleansing to Napoleon's lungs. Waverly sent them to the US for a joint FBI/UNCLE investigation, and it's the most free time Napoleon has gotten in months. 

It's his first time on American soil in almost seven years- having been punted around the Europe by the CIA. Not that Europe is bad- Wanderlust has been in Napoleon's bones since youth but there is nothing quite like returning to a place you once were so desperate to escape from. 

He wanders the streets for hours, wrapped in a coat and scarf against the Spring Chill. The numbness in his fingers is worth it just to see it all. When he first left it was with a certainty he would not return, the big adventure to Europe would either kill him or change his life. And how it did, but even the wanderer finds himself itching for a sense of 'home'. 

And in a word that is what the city is, but Napoleon doesn't feel 'at home'. He suppose that is the curse of the wanderer too. 

The UNCLE-provided apartment is even smaller than his Berlin safe house but it's stocked and the bed is soft. The kitchen sits at the back of the flat, and the front door opens in the living room. To the Right is the bedroom- with enough space for large and chest of draws. Parallel to it is the bathroom; a square room with just a shower, sink and toilet. It may be shabby and cold, but Napoleon enjoys the view from the living room window of the street and park beyond. 

He perches himself on the ledge, indulging in his one cigarette accompanied by cognac. He watches the people go by as the radio crackles from the kitchen, letting the Atmosphere soak into his bones. 

The fresh bandage, changed from old linen to medical gauze, itches but he doesn't pick it. He convinced his neighbour Ginny, a middle aged ginger mom of four, that he'd had an accident with a knife at work and she'd chastised him in a motherly manner but volunteered to wrap him up. He sat in her kitchen for a hour being force fed cookies and watching her two youngest play in the living room. 

A car whizzes by at top speed and Napoleon tuts. Then, there is a squeal of brakes, and the same car comes zooming backwards and jerks onto the pavement edge. Napoleon's brow furrows as loud, argumentative voices replace the engines hum. 

Both passenger and side door open and Napoleon can't help grinning when a grey flat-cap and pink brimmed hat emerge. They don't pause in their exchange of angry- French- words until Napoleon whistles shrilly. The two agents look up. 

The last of a very grumpy frown leaves Illya's face, replaced with a resigned look of acknowledgment. Gaby waves, before disappearing into the lobby. 

They'd left Kazakhstan with tension permeating the air, so potently even Gaby watched them both warily. Illya said nothing to him the whole car ride and flight, wouldn't even meet his eye and Napoleon felt his own mood darken in reaction. He'd done nothing, said nothing since Italy. It was Illya who started this, each time pulling Napoleon in and then pushing him away. In that bedroom Napoleon had glimpsed Illya's internal struggle, between the KGB monster and the man Napoleon's knows and is falling for. It is frustrating but Napoleon can wait. God, he'll wait as long as Illya needs. 

Gaby doesn't stop knocking until the door opens, and she pushes her way in. 

"This whole city stinks, like garbage." She announces. Napoleon holds the door open and Illya awkwardly steps inside, hand clasped behind his back. 

"As... lovely as it is to see you both after, oh, so long... What are you doing here?" Napoleon asks, letting the door fall closed. Gaby lounges on the sofa, propping her feet up on the coffee table. 

"Illya wanted to see the city." She replies. 

Napoleon watches the Russian inspect the room nosily. "Is that so." 

"Mhm, we need a tour guide." Gaby says with a wave of hand. 

"That's a tad impractical at six in the afternoon..." Napoleon says and is met with blank stares, "… nowhere is open. At least nowhere for tourists. And besides, I have to keep a... low profile." He'd been a petty thief long before  
going off to war. It had led to making a lot of people angry, and partly motivated him to sign up. 

"Well, I suppose it's dinner-in then. What are you cooking?" The smile on her face is a challenge Napoleon is not willing to take, so he smiles back. 

"How does Pasta sound?" 

. 

He puts Gaby to work, chopping onions, as revenge for making him host. She comes out on top anyway; gaining control of the radio and singing along loudly to terrible jazz. 

Once the sauce is safely simmering, Napoleon escapes the racket to seek out his cigarette in the living room. Instead he finds Illya sat there, ankles crossed and cigarette between his fingers. 

"This is a surprise." Napoleon pipes up, slipping his hands into his pockets. Illya releases a billow of smoke out of the window and holds it out. 

"Doesn't look to be much left." Napoleon tuts, but takes it anyway and moves to sit beside Illya, crossing his knees. 

"Just light another one." Illya replies picking up the packet next to the ash tray. He lifts the lid and peers into an empty box. 

"Saves temptation." Napoleon explains. He looks at the filter that has been in Illya's mouth, and tries not to think about it too much as he takes a drag, "I let myself have just one a year to satisfy the urge, if I have more than one I won't stop. It became quite a habit during.... in the army." 

"And I smoke a third of it." Illya says, looking guilty. 

Napoleon laughs, "it's quite alright, Peril, better to share." 

"Why do you stop?" Illya asks. Napoleon offers him the cigarette and Illya takes it. 

"I only started when I joined the army. Everyone did it, they handed them out like leaflets. But it tastes awful, and it smells just as bad, Peril, honestly I only did it to fit in." That makes Illya smile slightly, passing the cigarette back and Napoleon's stomach flips. 

"And... every time I taste that taste and smell that smell, I remember everything... It's hard to remember things you want to forget." Napoleon watches the tobacco glow, the deep recesses where those memories are buried suddenly not so distant. 

"So just one. As a toast to friends long past." Napoleon says, holding up the butt like he would the neck of a champagne glass. 

Illya reaches out, curling his hand around Napoleon's and plucking the cigarette from him. Silently he crushes the numb in the ash tray. 

"That is sad ritual, Napoleon, but... I understand." Illya says quietly, and he stands moving into Napoleon's space. On automatic, Napoleon sits up and opens his legs for the Russian to step between. His face is clasped between dangerous, healing, destructive hands and Napoleon's heart rate reaches critical. 

"Solo! The pot it boiling over!" Gaby calls from the kitchen. Napoleon shifts, ready for Illya to jump away. And yet his hands tighten against Napoleon's jaw. Hot breath ghosts over his cheek and before Napoleon can close his eyes Illya is kissing him. It's hard and frightened and all Napoleon can do is tilt his head and let Illya have what he wants. 

All too soon they're breaking apart, trying to stifle their gasping breathes. 

"Just one." Illya whispers breathlessly. "To satisfy urge." He's gone in an instant, marching into the bathroom and closing the door swiftly. Everywhere Illya's hands have been, Napoleon feels static but he can hardly bask before remembering Gaby. 

When he enters the kitchen, she stands at the stove with a hand on her hip and spoon in the other stirring the pasta. 

"W-Where is the sauce?" 

"Dead. I am not a cook Solo, what were you expecting to happen?" Gaby replies conversationally. Napoleon's eyes travel to the open window behind her. 

"Gaby..." 

She shrugs. 

Napoleon goes to the window and looks into the alley where a murder scene red splatter and a dented metal pot answer his question. He looks at Gaby sternly. 

"There are beans." She says innocently, and Napoleon can't help smiling. 

Illya rejoins them and looks disgusted as Gaby announced tonight's menu, his nose wrinkling. It's adorable and all Napoleon can do is smile and suggest wine. 

It tastes about as nice as to be expected but there are no leftovers. Illya eats methodically, mouth constantly full and glaring at his plate, probably to avoid any conversation or eye contact. He smiles as he watches the Russian chew and a flicker of dark eyes let him know Illya can see him, the blush creeping onto his cheeks; concrete evidence. 

In a bizarre domestic haze, they tidy away the dishes and Gaby decides- since she did most of the work- they have to wash up. 

At the tiny sink, Napoleon scrubs while Illya dries and Gaby sits with a large glass of wine and watches. With elbows brushing Napoleon lets his gaze wander to Illya again, who chews his lip in thought or concentration. 

It isn't until Gaby announces it's time for them to leave that Illya meets his eye and it's with a look of comical bemusement. 

"Miss Teller you are not driving in your condition." Napoleon chuckles. 

"Fine, I suppose I'll take the sofa then." Gaby sighs loudly, casting herself onto the cushions. 

Napoleon leans forward, listening. 

"Is she...?" 

"Mhm. It's talent." The Russia replies fondly. "The Chimera Job? In storm off Greece coast? Slept through whole mission." 

"Really?" Napoleon mutters, equally fond. Then he realises: "I... don't have a spare bedroom." 

Illya's eyes widen. 

"It-It's a big bed we can shared. Or I can take the floor I don't mi-" 

"We share, we can share." Illya blurts. Napoleon's uncontrollable smile returns and Illya quickly looks away. 

"I'll, um, put everything away you can borrow some clothes if you want." Napoleon says, pointing to the bedroom door. He turns on his heel and goes into the kitchen before he can look at Illya again for fear he might do something drastic. 

It feels like a dream, Napoleon thinks as he tidies up. Illya kissed him but instead of just one Napoleon wants the whole pack. Does that mean Illya is done with him? Napoleon pauses, plate halfway into the cupboard. He said just one. 

Shaking the thoughts from his head, Napoleon goes to the bedroom. Illya is curled on his side, lamp off, and wearing a borrowed shirt. It makes Napoleon's chest ache. He could never resist just one cigarette for the rest of his life, it's too tempting. If Napoleon does say so himself, he's quite tempting. He's not giving up on Illya yet. 

Trying to be quiet, Napoleon moves around the bed and stripes down until he reaches his jumper. He eases it over his shoulders but the wool tugs at the bandage and he hisses. 

"Solo?" Illya whispers, sitting up. 

"I'm fine, Peril, just... struggling." Napoleon says defeatedly, holding up his arm where his whole jumper hangs in a bunch. Illya snorts and climbs over the bed, kneeling on the mattress and takes Napoleon's wrist. He slips his hand under the sleeve and the takes the bundle at his elbow and carefully pulls the jumper off. 

"How is your arm?" Illyaa asks. Napoleon takes the jumper and turns to the wardrobe. 

"You mean my gunshot wound?" 

"Yes, you're gunshot wound." Illya huffs, shifting into a sitting position. 

"Aches. Quite a bit, but I've had worse." 

"What's worse than a gunshot wound?" Illya asks derisively. 

"A broken heart?" Napoleon replies instantly, "I've heard it's quite painful. I've stubbed my toe worse than this, Peril, it's fine." He turns back to the Russian smiling brightly, because that's what he does best. 

"This is why you puke on yourself in shower?" Illya replies flatly. 

"… Fair point." Napoleon makes a shooing motion and Illya takes the hint, moving back over to the other side of the bed. "Illya, if you snore, I will kick you out of bed." 

Illya makes an indignant noise and kicks out, hitting Napoleon's calve. 

"I'd like to see you try, Cowboy." 

Napoleon grins, chancing a glance over his shoulder at Illya's back. He wonders what the skin beneath looks like- pale, marred with scars from a dark past Napoleon will never know. But he can imagine. Or maybe he's just like Napoleon, tanned from years and months in the European summer with nothing but freckles. 

"Solo?" 

Napoleon hums, feeling caught out. He waits motionless. 

"You call me Illya again." 

"I- I suppose I did. My apologies." 

"I prefer it. Better than Peril. No one uses my first name." Illya says quietly. 

"Mine neither." Napoleon realises. It's a lonely thought. "I can call you Illya?" 

"Yes." The please goes unsaid but Napoleon can hear it all the same. 

"Alright." Napoleon clears his throat and adds, "I'm still going to call you Peril though." 

"Only if I can call you Cowboy, Cowboy." 

"I expect nothing less." Napoleon turns, the shifting of the sheets seeming louder in the quiet. 

"Illya." He tests the word and it somehow feels different now. 

"Illya I know you don't talk much, about anything really, but particularly about how you feel-" He can see the tension growing in the Russians shoulders, "- but what happened early. If you ever want... another cigarette I'm  
here. I care about you, Illya, a great deal." 

He cautiously touches Illya's shoulder with the tips of the fingers. The tension begins to ebb. 

"YA tozhe zabochus' o tebe." Is uttered under a breath. 

Napoloeon sighs, a knot of relief and disappointment in his chest. 

"Dobrey nochi, Illya." 

"Dobrey nochi." 

For the rest of the night Illya's foot stays pressed against Napoleon's leg and Napoleon's hand on Illya's back. 

Neither of them mention it. 

And neither of them mention waking up the next morning pressed chest to chest, arm in arm. 

 

\- 

 

Of course it was bound to happen eventually. 

They get caught. 

The mission had been so simple, just a seek and retrieve job nothing serious. It goes off almost with a hitch. Illya had planned to go straight to his room, two floors up, and sleep for a while. But Napoleon laughs about Gaby using the heel of her shoe as a weapon when she ran out of bullets and he smiles in that way. That way which makes Illya want to kiss him again. 

But he can't- just one; two and he'll never stop. He'll kill him with kisses, until they both forget to breath and Illya will taste Napoleon's last breath in his mouth. 

With persuasion (through Gaby's promise of chess and Napoleon's offer to buy the drinks) Illya joins them. They buy three bottles- Cognac, Vodak, red wine- and gather in Napoleon's room. 

Gaby takes his hand at some point and forced him to twirl in the middle of the hotel room as a record she'd brought that day in the guise of a tourist plays. Napoleon claps and laughs some more, his eyes never leaving Illya. They rarely do these days. 

As Illya holds Gaby and sways to La Vie en Rose- her drink held loosely in a hand around his neck- the two watch each other, Napoleon's look almost unreadable over the rim of his glass. All Illya can do is look back, spellbound. 

He had tried for two weeks not to think about New York but in moments like this- the quiet ones- it is all he can see: Napoleon's look after he'd pulled away, not disgust like he'd expected; awe, heat. 

It's been a struggle to come to terms with his attraction to men, for years it plagued him. But living in the this world, in the shadows, he has seen too much. There are worst things in this world than how someone chooses to love another. So Illya simply packed it away in the back of his mind as another piece of him to hide from the world. Then Napoleon had strolled into his life. 

At first it was maddening attraction to an obnoxious, vein, chauvinistic thief. But as the months pass it grows deeper than that; Illya would do anything for him, with only a little complaining. It's scary to love someone that much, especially when he knows how easily those you love can be taken from you. 

Of course it had to be Napoleon. Charming, patient, passionate. A lover of the finer things in life, and Illya is not one. He feels like a creature in the shadows of the sun- Napoleon burns so brightly it's hard to look at him sometimes. Napoleon loves overtly, and briefly and that's not something Illya wants. To be another woman he uses for pleasure and information and throws away would break Illya. So he kisses just once, just so he doesn’t have to image that in his dreams. 

He looks away from Napoleon, lump in his throat and hands trying not to shake. It is tempting. 

Then the whole world erupts.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... okay so i will accept being beaten over the head with a stick for how late i am...  
>  i dont have much of an excuse so sorry!
> 
> but here's part 2!

It had been hot all day and Gaby had thrown open the windows and balcony doors but left the linen curtains draw. That probably saved them. 

Rapid gunshots cut through the warble of the record and the linen burst apart. 

Illya is on the ground before Gaby can yell 'down', holding her to the floor and shielding her body from the spray of woodchip. He turns his head and under the sofa he can see Napoleon on the ground too. Relief flows through him. They’re looking at each other again but this time Napoleon's face is a cool mask of professionalism. It tell Illya to get Gaby out of here. 

Illya nods, but reaches into his jacket and pulls out his back-up. He slides it under the sofa as far as he can and Napoleon wraps his fingers around Illya's and squeeze before dragging the piece away. 

"Up! Get up!" Illya hisses to Gaby. "Go for bedroom." Gaby nods and, with a urgent shove from Illya, dives across the room into the bedroom door. Glass explodes somewhere, probably the bottles on the table. 

In a neat roll, Illya makes it to the door. He pauses at the frame. Napoleon lays on his back now, gun in hand over his chest. 

He'll get out of this, Illya thinks, the Cowboy always does. 

Gaby wrangles the window open and hoists herself over the ledge. Illya goes to her and takes one of her hands, lowering her as far as he can until her shoeless toes brush the window frame below. 

"You will have to jump from there." Illya says hurriedly. Gaby only hesitates as second, clutching onto the ledge and meeting his eyes with a frightened look. Then she jumps. 

It's not too far, a jump a man with Illya's height could land. But Gaby, a foot shorted than him, falls and hits the pavement hard. Illya's pulse jumps as she cries out. He quickly follows her. 

"Gaby!" He whispers, helping her up. Her knees are bloody and there's blood between her toes from stepping on something sharp. 

"It's okay, Illya." She gasps, "just my ankle. I can move." 

"Back-up vehicle is this way." He grabs under her arm and leads her up the deserted backstreet. 

"We just left him." Gaby says quietly as they stagger through the shadows. Shame and fear coarse through Illya's blood, mixing with the adrenaline and making him feel sick. 

"Is what he wanted." Illya replies firmly, but he can see she is close to tears. 

The car is a small Citroen, an inconspicuous shade of grey, with a cross hanging from the mirror. Illya reaches beneath the wheel arch and retrieve the keys. 

"We regroup, we contact Waverly, we come back and find him." Illya says more to himself. He unlocks the door and the two of them get in. Gaby puts her seatbelt on as Illya fumbles with the ignition, his hands shaking. It's a familiar feeling that is usually accompanied by rage- not tonight. 

He turns the key over. 

As it happens, Illya realises he should have seen it, should have checked. 

They feel the explosion before they see it. Beneath Illya's feet he feels a quack and heat. Then they're launched into the air, the explosion shoving the car. The pressure forces Illya into his seat as flames chase their ascent. 

Then they're rolling, the car turning in the air. Gaby is caught by her seatbelt but Illya is thrown into the driver's window where his head cracks against the pane and his world turns dark. 

. 

The room he wakes in is pitch black and at first Illya wonders if he is still unconscious. His eyes begin to adjust and he sees four walls and, more importantly, feels the metal around his wrists. His arms hang awkwardly over one shoulder where the cuffs are held through a bar bolted to the wall. They've been caught. 

It's a scenario Illya has walked himself through before but this is different, it wasn't on a mission. He groans, pain suddenly awakening all over his body most potently from his temple. 

The car! 

Panic overtakes his training and he starts to struggle with the cuffs. 

"Gaby!?" He blurts, then bites his tongue punishingly. He just used a special agents first name in a hostage situation. 

With a deep breath he takes in his surrounding more carefully. The room is square, no window but the door has a grate. There's nothing in the room, no furniture, but there's a pool of blood the size of Illya's hand near the right wall. 

Suddenly there's noise. There must be a corridor outside because the noise travels until it comes to Illya's door and the lock scraps. Light enters the room as the door opens, and Illya squints at the silhouette. The person stands there, regarding Illya before stepping aside and speaking Russian. 

"Get him inside." 

Two more black clad men drag a body inside. 

"Solo." Illya calls, pulling against the cuffs again. Napoleon hangs limply between the men and the drop him at Illya's feet. "What have you done to him?" Illya snarls in Russian.  
The third man steps into the room as Illya sees his face, bespectacled and gaunt. The air of mad-scientist about him. 

"Your man shot three of my agents. He nominated himself as first in the chair. Do not worry you will get your turn." 

Good, is all Illya can think. Napoleon fought, not that he expect him to go quietly. He stares daggers at the man until the door closes. When the lock clicks, Illya scrambles forward as close as he can get to Napoleon. He can't reach for his pulse and Illya snarls in frustration. 

"Temper, temper." Napoleon croaks. Illya goes cold at how weak he sounds but he's conscious. 

"Solo." Illya says, "are you... okay?" 

"Been better." Napoleon answers, followed by a wet cough as he sits up. Not good. His shoes are gone as water drips from his fringe. But he still smiles at Illya and that makes him burn. 

"What did they do to you?" Illya growls. 

"Nothing that hasn't been done before." Napoleon replies tiredly. He pulls himself up and over to the wall, cradling his ribs and sitting beside Illya. Watery blood stains the left side  
of his face and his mouth. "It's THRUSH." 

"How do you know?" 

"I recognise the main guy, the one with glasses? Kazakhstan. It was his base we infiltrated for the American Satellite plans." 

"And he came to France to find us?" Illya says skeptically. 

"Pure chance." Napoleon looks at him, grin slightly hysterical. "He saw Gaby and I when we were tracking the target and his wife through the Lourve." He adds: "Apparently he has a taste for the finer arts." With a hint of spite. 

"That's... ridiculous." Illya mutters. What kind of bad luck. 

"I should have seen him. God, if anything happens to Gaby..." Napoleon's head drops and stares at his hands in his lap. Illya wants to reach out and comfort him but he too is paralysed by the thought of Gaby being tortured. It's too much. He feels his finger twitching. 

"We have to get out of here." Illya decides with a frighteningly calm tone. Napoleon watches him get up, brow furrowed. 

"It's a nice thought..." 

Illya twists his hands in the cuffs, grips the chain and starts to pull. The edges cut into his wrists and he strains against the restraint but he doesn't stop. After watching with a stunned look, Napoleon struggles to his feet and grabs onto the chain too. 

There's almost no give and Illya growls again and presses his foot against the concrete wall for more leverage. It's enough and after a minute the bolts finally give and the bar springs free with a noisy scrape. 

The two topple backwards and Napoleon's elbow collides with Illya's already aching shoulder. 

"Sweet mother of-" Napoleon gasps, curling over and clutching his ribs. Illya catches his breath, unconsciously pressing a hand too Napoleon's back. 

"Loving your work, Cowboy." Illya says and a surprised laugh bubbles up from Napoleon, followed by a wince. 

"Peril w-was that a joke?" Napoleon chuckles, then coughs. 

They stand and Illya regards his still very trapped hands while Napoleon dusts himself off. He watches Napoleon straighten then hunch minutely. 

"Ribs?" 

"Broken, at least a couple." Napoleon answers, still sounding breathless. But then he smiles at Illya and turns to him, almost putting them chest to chest. "You know when I  
pictured you and me, alone, in a locked room with some handcuffs this wasn't what I imagined at all." 

Illya's thoughts screech to a halt and he stares at Napoleon with wide eyes. All Napoleon does is smile and push his hands into his pockets. 

"I- Napo- Cowboy, this isn't the time." Illya croaks. 

"So another time?" Napoleon quickly retorts. Illya glares at him, unable to think of a good answer. 'Yes' is the first that comes to mind but even now, looking at a bedraggled, bruised Napoleon, he feels like he's looking at the sun. 

Noises in the corridor save him: purposeful footsteps. Napoleon's face turns serious. Illya moves behind the door and Napoleon stays in the middle of the room. The lock shifts and the door opens. 

"Wher-" 

"Behind you." 

Illya yanks the agent into the room and presses the bar up, under his chin, twisting until there is an ominous crack. Napoleon looks on grimly, one had firmly pressed against his ribs as he watches Illya pat down the body. Thankfully there a key in his back-pocket and Illya quickly sets his hands free, the cuffs coming away to reveal raw cuts circling his wrists. He finds a Glock and a back-up, handing the latter to Napoleon. 

"Ready?" 

"As I'll ever be." 

The move through the compound slowly, Illya leading the way. They encounter two other agents and Illya puts them down silently. Finally they see a glass door and Illya peers around the frame. 

His heart stops. 

Inside Gaby is laid out of a medical table, eyes closed and skin so pale it appears luminous. Everything starts to bleed red until a hand touches his bicep. 

"You with me, Illya?" Napoleon asks quietly, knowingly. With three long and deep breaths, Illya manages to nod. 

There's no one else in the room so Illya pushes in and goes to her side. Gaby doesn't stir when he touches her and he holds in the pained noise. Napoleon starts looking around purposefully, examining the machines. Small cuts pattern her throat and the side of her face. Illya's hand hovers over her bandaged forearm and he sees her wrapped ankle. 

"Can we move her?" Illya manages, bracing his hands on the table. 

Napoleon takes her wrist and waits, then lays it back down gently before lifting her eyelid with delicacy. Illya's frustration grows as Napoleon moves around. 

"Can. We. Move. Her?" Illya growls. Napoleon pauses, hand on the medicine cabinet. 

"I think she got a bad knock. Illya, moving her... it could be dangerous. But if we leave her they'll hurt her. We have to take her." Napoleon says, his voice the most serious he has ever heard it. Illya stares at him and then at Gaby's soft sleeping face. 

"We go. I carry her, you lead." Illya decides, tucking the gun in his waistband. He lifts Gaby into his arms, tucking her head against his chest. 

They find an exit close by to Illya's relief and burst out into daylight. 

"Oh my God." Napoleon breaths. 

All they see is water. A churning ocean beyond a stone wall. There's a sinking feeling in Illya, of failure and fear- for the first time in years. Illya crosses the open space and stares over the wall. 

"There's a boat." He whispers then louder, "there's a boat!" 

He turns and Napoleon is on his knees, a gun to his head. The man in glasses stands over him sneering. 

"Let him go or I'll kill you." Illya calls in Russian. 

"I think you are mistaken as to who has the upper hand here." The man replies. Illya opens his mouth to reply but the gun is raised and the shot rings out. With a cry of pain Illya falls, leg buckling as his thigh spills blood. Gaby balances on one arm and his knee precariously. 

"Illya!" Napoleon yells, struggling to stand but the man grabs the scruff on his neck and yanks him back on his necks. 

"It's okay, Cowboy." Illya gasps. "I said let him go." 

"Are you serious? I just shot you, what makes you think I won't shoot your friend?" The man says in disbelief but it gives Illya enough time to reach behind him, hand hidden by Gaby's body. He draws the gun and in a swift motion raises it, pulling the trigger. 

The man crumbles, glasses falling to the ground, split in two. 

Illya falls forward, bracing himself with a grunt. He keeps Gaby tightly to his chest as he tries to see past the pain. A familiar, warm hand grasps his shoulder. 

"We have to go, Illya, there'll be more coming." Napoleon says his breathing pained. Illya nods and hoists Gaby back into his arms, a shock of pain shooting through his leg as he takes the first step. 

The staircase down is steep. Halfway down, Illya slips falling backward but Napoleon appears at his side and pulls him onto his feet. 

It's a small boat, engine powered and with a small cabin below deck. Illya climbs inside, ignore the warm wetness seeping down his thigh. Napoleon sits in the driver's seat and starts pressing buttons while Illya lays Gaby in the cabin bed, brushing hair from her face. The boat rumbles to life around them. 

"Any idea where we are?" Illya asks as he takes the seat beside Napoleon. 

"We're actually not that far from mainland... Cornwall to be specific." Napoleon replies. "It's about two hours, straight shot from here." He smiles weakly at Illya but there's fresh blood on his hairline. Napoleon notices him looking and touches his brow, looking at the red liquid blandly. 

"I think we're all a little worse for wear." Napoleon says, nodding to Illya's thigh. Illya just hums, watching the sun setting to their East. 

Illya finds a first aid kit in the cabin and patches up his leg as best he can. He feels dizzy with pain and settles on the floor beside Gaby, leg stuck out. There's an air of defeat around them and Illya finds his eyes growing heavy but he doesn't sleep. Gaby shows no sign of life except her haggard breathing. Illya has never seen her like this, like death can touch her. She's always been the invincible magic number in their trio. Guilt swarms Illya, he should have protected her. It's his mother all over again, his family being hurt and taken away. 

He looks up the steps where Napoleon sits. Has he been wasting time second guessing himself? If Napoleon had died in that hotel room with Illya saying... anything, he won't be able to live with that. But if he took that step and something happened Napoleon the pain would be tenfold and Illya has been in pain all his life. 

It's almost dark out by the time they reach the harbour Waverly gave them the co-ordinates of, the skies pink and purples turning blue an deep. Waverly is waiting with a medical team who swarm Gaby when Illya carries her from the boat. Illya curses in Russian and almost assaults one of the medics when they explain they have to take her in the helicopter and he can't fit too. 

"Not to worry, Kuryakin, the ambulance will take you to the same hospital, there's a hotel nearby nothing fancy but it's inconspicuous. You'll be debriefed in thirty hours.  
Gentlemen." 

Napoleon meets his eye and his expression is resigned. He looks as tired as Illya feels. More so. He goes in the ambulance with little protest, letting the medic probe and treat his leg. Napoleon sits across from him with the other medic and Illya can't help the sharp intake of breath as he lifts his shirt. It's an artwork of violent yellow and purple. Napoleon doesn't meet his eye now. All the medic can do is wrap his chest heavily and give him pain meds, which Napoleon happily takes. 

"The magic of free health care." Napoleon says, shaking the box. Illya can hardly muster a glare. 

At the ambulance bay the medics protest worriedly when the agents decline being admitted. 

"Sir! You're at risk of infection!" The blonde calls. 

"I've survived worse, thank you." Illya replies. 

Napoleon is on his heels as they go into the hospital to find the emergency room. He searches wildly for a doctor who knows something, anything. They find Dr Yusuf who calmly explains Miss Teller is being examined and insists she cannot take visitors. Napoleon has to restrain Illya from grabbing the doctor by the throat and manhandles him into the waiting room where he blindly kicks over a row of chairs. 

"Are you done?" Napoleon calls, scorn lessened by the wheezes. 

Illya advances on him, guilty anger storming his veins but when he looks at Napoleon he sees the man is just as upset. He just has some restraint. Illya nods and follows Napoleon through the exit, looking back and making a silent prayer for Gaby to be okay. 

They walk in silence, even Napoleon lacking the energy to chat. The streets are devoid of people but they find the hotel with the lights on and welcoming. The woman at the desk takes a look at them- wet, bloody, bruised- and her eyes bug. But she makes no comment, handing over room keys. Napoleon thanks her charmingly. Their rooms are opposite one and other, and they both pause with the key in the door. Napoleon looks at him and Illya sees a reflection of his guilt, none of the laughed around his lips. Illya just wants to hug him. He drops his gaze to the carpeted floor before entering his room without a word. 

The lock clicks into place and Illya lets himself drop to the floor. Pain and a feeling too close to mourning consume him. He starts to cry, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. He hasn't felt such an ocean of emotions in so long it feels like he's drowning. 

After some time, he drags himself up and finds the bathroom. The water is cool but it's enough. Leg too painful to stand, Illya sits on the tiled floor beneath the spray. He leans against the wall numbly an let's his mind go blank. 

He doesn't notice the scraping in the lock, or the click as the door open and shuts. 

"Illya." Napoleon murmurs softly. Illya looks up in surprise at him, freshly dressed in a white shirt and trousers. He watches Illya with his hands in his pockets. Illya should mind he is so naked to Napoleon's gaze but instead he lets his eyes fall close. There's the shift of material and Illya hears Napoleon shuck his shirt and shoes. 

He feels Napoleon before he realises what is happening- the thief sits next to Illya in the spray, soaking his vest and trousers. With a small huff of pain, Napoleon leans into him and lets his head fall onto Illya's shoulder. 

With a sob the last dregs of Illya's willpower disappears. He presses his face into Napoleon's hair and wonders who is comforting who in this moment. 

 

\- 

 

Gaby doesn't wake up for four days. 

Illya is there for almost all of them, except for Waverly's debriefing in which is his cold and silent. Napoleon understands and does most of the talking but even he is still too drained to put on some snark and charm. Being beat, half drowned, and electrocuted for a second time will do that. His whole body feels like it's ringing with the pulses of energy, and he finds himself twitching more. 

He stays with Illya most of the time, forcing him to eat and sleep but hardly does himself- Gaby stirs when they are mid-argument over who is being more hypocritical . 

"You're as bad as each other." Gaby croaks with a smile. 

"Gaby!" Illya gasps, leaping up from his seat and almost falling over. He bends over her, talking her hand in his. Napoleon moves more delicately, ribs too sensitive for anything fast than snails pace. 

"Welcome back." He says. 

"I didn't think I was..." Gaby murmurs, voice wavering, "Illya, the last thing I remember is the car blowing up." 

"It's alright." Illya replies in German, "we were taken by THRUSH but we escaped before they could... extract any information." Illya casts his gaze to Napoleon. 

"How long have I be out?" 

"Six days, thereabouts." Napoleon answers. "You scare us for a moment there, Miss Teller." 

"worried were you, Mr Solo?" She says, poking is side. Napoleon winces and her eyes widen, "were you hurt?" 

"No I'm alr-" 

"Broken ribs." Illya interrupts. Napoleon rolls his eyes and shrugs at Gaby's scandalised look. 

"I'm fine. They keep giving me pain meds, it's paradise. I might never leave England." Napoleon pats her hand trying to seem reassuring. "And besides look at Illya! He got shot." 

Gaby's scandalised look moves to Illya who transforms into a scolded schoolboy. Her hand slips from under his and she traces the bandages that cover the cuts of his wrist.  
"'S nothing." Illya mumbles. 

"Mhmm." Napoleon hums accusingly, crossing his arms. 

They release her two days later, after much complaining and finally Illya being used as backup to intimidate the doctor. Finally reunited, Gaby insists on celebrating. They eat fish and chips on the sea front, and Napoleon explains how to make the perfect battered fish and regales them with the tale of how he stole a Picasso with just a pen and a live Cod. 

Gaby laughs so hard she almost chokes on a fish bone. Illya smiles and shakes his head but it's with fond exasperation. It makes Napoleon feel normal again. 

They end up in Napoleon's room with three bottles of red wine, and Gaby puts on a record. It's makes him a little uneasy how familiar it feels to just a few days ago but it's too cold for open windows and the room looks out over the ocean so Napoleon feels a little safer. 

Gaby nominates Napoleon as her dance partner this time. They waltz around the room elegantly and Napoleon spine tingles knowing Illya is watching him. As the song ends, Illya claps and Gaby curtsies but quickly stops Napoleon from sitting. 

"No, no. I have danced with both of you, now you must dance together." She says, taking Illya's hand and pulling him to his feet. Illya looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights.  
As they stand staring at each other Gaby changes the record to, of course, something slow. Napoleon offers his hand with a grin. 

"May I have this dance?" He asks, as charmingly as he would any other dame. But Illya isn't a damn and he's not just anyone to Napoleon. 

Illya looks at his hand like it's a foreign object and, in a dazed sort of way, takes it. Heart racing, Napoleon pulls him close with one hand on his hip and the other at the small of  
his back. The Russian flounders but then lets his own hands settle on Napoleon's shoulder and elbow. The music seems barely there as they start to move, turning slowly in circles. As every second passes Napoleon becomes terribly aware of how close they are. Illya glances around nervously until Napoleon speaks. 

"You know... you never did answer my question in the cell." He says quietly enough that only Illya can hear him. A blush creeps up the Russians neck. 

"I did not." Illya mutters. 

"Well... just to be clear." Napoleon leans close, his lips an inch from Illya's ear. "I always carry handcuffs with me." Illya snorts and shakes his head in disbelief. His voice is barely there when he replies. 

"I said just one." 

"It's never just one, Illya. You can't compare us to a cigarette, this flame won't go out." Napoleon squeezes Illya closer. "You don't leave a smell I'm desperate to wash away, and when you kissed me? That was a taste that left me wanting more than just your body. I regret ever touching a cigarette, but I'll never regret touching you." 

It feels like a confession, uttering these words so plainly to no one but themselves. Illya's eyes are shining in the lamplight and suddenly the music has stopped. The record is over. 

Illya steps out of his arms and it feels like an answer. 

"I-I must go." Illya announces, looking at Gaby almost in fear. She smiles sadly at him and nods. 

"Goodnight. See you tomorrow." She says and tilts her cheek for him to kiss as he passes. Napoleon shoves his tremoring hands into his pockets and isn't surprised when Illya doesn't look at him as he gathers his things and leaves. 

Gaby stays in her seat, watching him. 

"What?" He snaps grumpily. Gaby raises her eyebrows. 

"I thought you were just messing with him at first." 

"Who? Illya?" 

"You're not are you. You really lo-" 

"I'm tired, Gaby, do you mind." 

She stands, straightening her dress. "Fine. But this isn't easy for him, Solo." 

"I do know-" 

"No, I don't think you do. You forget we've been living with you for half a year. He's seen the way you treat the people you take to bed. Illya may be an effective agent, a killer, but he's more sensitive than you or I. When he loves, he loves with his whole being." 

Napoleon opens his mouth but can't decide what to say so he lets Gaby kiss his cheek on tip-toes and leave. 

With a deep sigh Napoleon throws back two more glasses of wine before going to bed. He hadn't seen it like that before. Of course that's what Illya would think. It will take more than words to show Illya he isn't another mark. 

When there's a scrape at his door, he almost expects it. Napoleon stays curled up in bed listening to him struggle with the tumblers. He smiles when the lock finally clicks. 

Soft light from the corridor spills into the roof, and Napoleon rolls to face Illya. 

"We have to stop meeting like this." 

There's no reply, Illya just looks at him with a lost expression. 

"Come here..." Illya looks shocked and Napoleon quickly adds, "nothing's going to happen, just..." He waves and the Russia is drawn across the room. 

"Take off your shoes, and jacket." Napoleon says and reaches up, "and that damn hat." He tugs the cap from Illya's head, mussing his hair. 

The jacket joins the shoes on the floor and Illya stands there, waiting for instruction. Instead of speaking, he takes the Russians hand and presses his lips to bruised knuckles and then to the back of his hands, and to the bandages on his wrists. 

"Stay with me." Napoleon whispers against his skin. 

It takes a bit of none-verbal negotiation but they finally settle beneath the sheets together, nose to nose with their legs tangled together. Illya's rests his hands between them and Napoleon covers them with his own. 

"I mean what I said, Illya, it's not just a flight of fancy with you. I'll prove it to you however I can." Nothing is said as they both fall asleep, restful for the first time in months. 

. 

The chair creaks as Napoleon rocks back on it, feet propped up on the desk. He crushes noisily on a pistachio, watching the Russian sitting across from him. He's poised over a small stack of paperwork, pen scribbling on the document at intervals. The mug by Napoleon's knee is almost full of shells, having been cooped in the UNCLE headquarters for hours. 

After Cornwall, the three agents had been taken back to Manchester by Waverly and give desk duty until their wounds healed. 

Napoleon eyes the letter in his out-tray, opened and quickly stuffed back in the envelope. A request to attend therapy sessions, again. He's fairly certain a similar letter is hidden  
under Illya's paperwork. 

Illya hadn't spoken to him much, but they hadn't had the chance until now. Suddenly Napoleon doesn't know what to say. Instead he watches, indulging himself for just a while. 

In the beginning he looked at Illya with a degree of lust- the man is tall, blond, strong and just Napoleon's type. But after working together for so long a frightening sense of... adoration has grown between them. He cares about the ridiculous Russian far more than he ever intended. Now all he thinks of is Illya's hands, a paradox in themselves; things that could squeeze the life out of him in seconds, or stitches up a mortal wound just as easily. He thinks of Illya's hair, blond but dark- before he had wonder if it would be soft or rough, and now he knows and he wants to run his fingers through it again. 

"Take picture, it will last longer." Illya suddenly says. 

Napoleon laughs, "did Gaby tell you that one?" 

"Believe it or not, Cowboy, I knew that one all on my own." Illya replies flatly. 

"I'd much rather stare at the real thing." Napoleon says and that makes Illya look up. Even with a neutral expression he's blushing. Napoleon stands and moves around the desk, sitting down on the edge of Illya's desk. He briefly casts his eyes to the closed door before leaning in, slowly to let Illya know what he's doing. But all the Russian does is hitch a breath, shifting a fraction to meet Napoleon's lips. 

Sighing, Illya opens up to the kiss. There isn't the desperation there had been before. Napoleon smiles as Illya tentatively pushes his tongue forward. Napoleon slips his hand around the nape of Illya's neck, deepening the kiss. There's a taste of coffee and their teeth scrap as Napoleon tilts his head, yearning for more. 

There's a snap and the two break apart by just a hairs width. With a breathless laugh, Napoleon sees the broken pen in Illya's fist on the desk. Napoleon slips his hand from Illya's neck, around his collar, to the knot of his tie. 

"Will you come to mine for dinner? Tonight?" 

"Da." 

It's painful how much Napoleon wants him in that moment. Pulling Illya forward by his tie Napoleon gives him one more heated kiss, nipping at his bottom lip before stepping away. 

"How's seven?" Napoleon asks with an air of business, picking up his coat and briefcase. 

"Da. Yes, I will be there." Illya answers faintly, touching his lips. 

At the door, Napoleon stops and says: "Ne mgu dozhdat'sya." And with a wink, he closes the door behind him. 

Leaving the building Napoleon feels like he's walking on air, making a list of ingredients to buy and which wine to pair with it. Or should he buy vodka? A Russia drink with an Italian meal, it doesn't sound perfect but Napoleon's willing to try. 

He arrives at the flat laiden with groceries. He struggles with the key, balancing the shopping bags on one arm and eventually gets through the door. 

The flat is small, agency provided ones always are (cheapskates). With one large living the front doors opens into, with the kitchen to the right and bedroom to the left. Napoleon drops the keys in the dish by the shoe rack and kicks the door shut. Without turning the lights on, he puts the bag on the floor and shucks his coat. 

"Mr. Solo." 

Napoleon doesn't jump. He flicks the light switch and glares at Waverly sitting at his kitchen table with a cup of tea. 

"You know.. it's rude to break into people's houses." Napoleon says and picks up his shopping. 

"I'm afraid this couldn't wait, Solo." 

"Is that so?" Napoleon mutters as he puts away the vegetables. 

"At beginning of your tenure here we discussed a certain... matter-" 

"This flat isn't bugged, Waverly." Napoleon sighs. In the first few months of working with Illya he would have to do a daily sweep of his room and clothing and even since it's become a habit where ever he goes. 

Waverly shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat. 

"When you first started working with UNCLE we discussed a future operation, involving a possible THRUSH mole within UNCLE." 

Napoleon pauses and rests his hands on the counter. "So they've become active again?" 

"It appears so. When you, Kuryakin and Teller were taken in France, we believe it was the informant who passed on your location to the TRUSH operative." 

"It was a tad unconvincing when he told me saw us in the Lourve. I may not be the best spy but even I would have noticed that." Napoleon says. 

"Well I'm glad your vanity remains intact, but we need you to go to Switzerland. We have three active agents there, one of them is the mole. I need you to figure out which." 

"How exactly am I meant to do that?" Napoleon turns to face Waverly, crossing his arm. 

"By betraying UNCLE yourself of course." Waverly drains his cup and takes it to the sink as Napoleon processes the information with a sinking feeling. "The bread crumbs have been laid out for the other mole to find, hopefully that will draw them in. This will be dangerous, I won't lie, your fellow agents will be convinced you're a mole. They'll be under orders to capture you dead or alive." 

Illya's face flashes into his mind betrayed, furious. 

"When do we start?" Napoleon asks. 

Waverly lifts his hat from the hook and dusts it off. 

"Five minutes ago Mr Solo. Your flight is at six, there's a car waiting. Pack your things." Waverly pops the hat upon is head and pauses, observing Napoleon's stoic expression and then the assortment of goods on the counter. " 

"Were you expecting company?" 

Napoleon looks at the can of tomato puree by his hand. "I was... we were having dinner. A date I think." 

"Well you'll have to cancel. Good luck, Solo." 

Napoleon grits his teeth and nods. 

It was supposed to be tonight. Their night, Napoleon had everything planned. He sighs, bowing his head. He can't cancel or Illya will know something is wrong. But if he just leaves? Will they know, will Waverly tell them? No he couldn't possibly or the mission would be compromised. 

There's his go bag waiting in the bottom of the closet, and he adds a few other things before going to the door. Then Napoleon pauses and goes to the cupboard over the sink. 

Behind the pasta, inside the brown jar marked sugar he pulls out the packet of Marlboro's. Taking out one cigarette, Napoleon lays it on the window sill by the ash tray.  
Napoleon hopes it will mean something to Illya. 

. 

He's called in, just ten minutes before he is about to leave for Napoleon's flat. Illya glares at his phone accusingly but answers it anyway. Waverly's secretary hurriedly requests he come into the office right away, sensing Illya's irritation through the device. Illya growls but takes a deep breath- Napoleon will probably be there anyway. 

He senses something is wrong the minute he enters Waverly's office. Gaby sits in one chair, looking stiffly at Illya while Waverly looks grave. 

"Ah, Kuryakin, please sit." Waverly says, gaze flickering to Gaby. 

"Where is Solo?" 

"That's why we're here actually. Kuryakin, it appears Napoleon Solo has been selling secrets to TRUSH." 

Everyone feels the chill settle over the room. Illya's finger twitches. 

"What?" Illya chokes. The room starts to spin as Waverly explains, and his voice is drowned out beneath his rapidly increasing heartbeat. His composure breaks and Illya suddenly stands. The room goes silent. 

"Kury-" 

"Illy-" 

"I have to go." Illya says thickly and marches from the room. Gaby doesn't follow him, he's glad she knows him well enough not to. 

His legs carry him to Napoleon's flat. 

The door is open and Illya eases into the dark space, checking each corner of the room. Fire courses through Illya but he looks around the flat calmly. The bed is made- two books, a lamp and a candle on the side table. The kitchen is stocked, fresh vegetable in the basket by the fridge. He left in a hurry. 

It was all a lie. Had Napoleon strung him along just to distract him? He'd never thought of Napoleon as cruel until this moment. 

Something out of the corner of his eye makes Illya pause before leaving. 

On the sill of the window sits a single cigarette. 

Hands shaking, Illya picks it up and turns it over in his palm. He can't decide what Napoleon is trying to say but it's something, something he can hold onto. 

Illya tucks the cigarette into his trouser pocket and leaves the flat just as he found it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun-dun-duuun!! 
> 
> hope y'all enjoyed it, and thank you for your patience and for reading! X
> 
> ps. come visit me on tumblr im at zanesgarrett.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> wow so i hope yall enjoyed that, sorry if it's a little rough i dont have a beta and im very bad a languages!   
> also apologies for any historical inaccuracy?!
> 
> ill post part 2 as soon as i can- a few days probably! x


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